-I’m writing this all far too aware and tempted by the fact that it would be so easy, so comfortable to tilt my head back and fall asleep. The past few days I’ve been grudgingly fighting back a cold, denying its existence, pretending that it’s just a little difficult for my body to adjust to home than anticipated. Jetlag can last four days, right? Meanwhile, it’s been nice to spend the past few days reading, sipping tea and making naptime a priority.
-I saw Watchmen the other day. I’ve actually been anxiously awaiting this movie since reading the graphic novel. Truth be told, I never read the graphic novel until well into the promotional material for the movies started flooding the public consciousness. I’ve been vaguely aware of the movie for some time now due to the accolade: the only “comic book” on Time magazine’s 100 best books list, buckets of praise from the comic universe, and general awesomeness bestowed by accredited critics and basement-confined geeks in general.
I’m not really one for comic books or graphic novels, but I am one for stories. My tolerance for superheroes and mutant powers only goes so far—it’s nice and all, but I prefer characters with shady origins and conflicting moralities. That said, reading the actual graphic novel of the Watchmen was great. There’s an actual in-depth story in there. The “comic” itself goes beyond requirements and includes newspaper articles, government documents and fictionalized autobiographies of secondary characters to shed light on events that give further depth to an already well-established storyline.
Ok, established. Watchmen the graphic novel=brilliant piece of fiction. Watchmen the movie=interesting adaption.
To get the basics out of the way, numerous filmmakers over the past decade have attempted to turn Watchmen into a movie, never mind it’s been considered impossible. The depth of the work itself requires so much attention, so much respect that to cut down on anything would ruin the subtlety of the work itself. Then again, that’s what happens when you try to adapt written material for film, true? The nuances hidden within a single written sentence are obliterated when translated to a massive movie screen, right?
But isn’t that a requirement of an adaption? The intrinsic elements are included, but the work on the whole is modified and sculpted to the new medium. Most senses of subtly are lost in adapting the graphic novel to the big screen, but the work succeeds in gaining a new vehicle: the big screen. Look at how big everything is! See how badass Rorschach looks in person! Wonder at how bleak everything looks in the everyday world as opposed to on ink and paper.
Still, at nearly three hours long, maybe the creators of the movie felt they were at the mercy of the material as opposed to co-collaborators. To hell with convention—it’s in your hands now. That’s the bit that bothered me about the movie—I don’t think the team behind the movie took as many liberties as they could have. Rather than fill in on all the bits so deliciously carried on in the movie, carry on the story, as it would best translate on the big screen. Drop unnecessary dialogue, neglect scenes that would get in the way of the film’s flow, and don’t be afraid to take liberties. It’s your movie, you interpretation. Do it that way.
(Furthermore: put some goddamn pants on Dr. Manhattan and stop using Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluiah” in every tender scene in a movie. Granted, it’s a great song—Jeff Buckley’s version is as heartbreakingly beautiful as anything else you’ll hear—but for fuck’s sake, please stop.
-On Thursday I leave for Ft. Lauderdale, and the day after I get back on the Noordam for the next seven months. In honor of everything I’ll miss while I’m gone:
-The Temple
-Java’s
-Record Archive
-My french press
-Book stores
-The jazz festival
-Not having to do passenger boat drill
-Then again, I’m going to Europe for seven months. I think I’ll live (quite well, thank you.)
Cheers.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
in transit
I’ve thought about airports quite a bit for the past few years. What was at first a fascination with the ability to travel thousands of miles away eventually turned into a love-hate relationship, followed by a love-mostly hate relationship, and has currently resolved itself into a love-still hate-fascination affair. The love of traveling collides with the hassle of waiting, delays, customs, more waiting, security checks, last minute gate changes and more waiting. Sort of makes you think that Kerouac had a good idea with hitchhiking. Dangerous, true, but at least he was never bored.
I think my curiosity with airports first developed when I flew to Milan out of JFK a year and a half ago. I sat around the international terminal, watching supermodels and jetsetters hustle around all suntanned and apathetic, obviously delayed with their flights to locales glorified in in-flight magazines and the Travel Channel. It really did fascinate me in a way—the fact that their presence was necessitated somewhere far away, somewhere warmer, sleeker, sexier than where they came from. I was the simple kid from suburban New York, guitar in hand, clueless as to what he was doing, only thinking about his hotel reservation and the passport in his back pocket. Everything seemed a little bigger; JFK was less of an airport hub and more of a (dare I say?) social scene.
Doing the cruise ship job, airports are inevitable. They’re one of your last beacons of dry land and your first light at the end of the contract as you go home. I suppose in a way the downtime between flights and connections can be a bit of a cleansing experience. You’re finally back in the “real” world, walking shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, families, college students, restless loaners, people with their own stories and reasons for getting from place to place. For me, it helps clear my head a bit, shows that I’m separated from the ship, from looking at people as either co-workers, passengers, or the fortunate few who don’t need to worry about all-aboard times.
Today in the Charlotte/Douglass International airport I ran into a sweetheart of a seeing eye dog in training, a lounge pianist playing Amy Winehouse, an impeccably dressed British gentleman, an angry businessman with the strangest bald spot I’ve ever seen, and two full grown adult women, twins, skipping to their gate as if they were pretending to be fairies. I feel like now would be the moment to make some grand statement about opening your eyes to what’s around you, but….I hate clichés, and this is one of the biggest offenders of them all. Entertaining, absolutely true, and a welcome change to seeing grumpy passengers holding up lunch lines and not applauding during shows, but shouldn’t your eyes be opened all the time anyway?
As I walked from terminal to terminal today to meet my connecting flight I ran into another guy with a guitar. We exchanged the universal greeting for crossing musicians (sight head nod) and walked our separate ways. The observing outsider could see it as the working, traveling musicians acknowledging and respecting each other for a brief moment before we carried on into whatever gig lie next.
A nice sentiment, but bullshit nonetheless. He was walking out of the bar that I walked into. Beer and free wireless are great selling points for my people.
Cheers.
I think my curiosity with airports first developed when I flew to Milan out of JFK a year and a half ago. I sat around the international terminal, watching supermodels and jetsetters hustle around all suntanned and apathetic, obviously delayed with their flights to locales glorified in in-flight magazines and the Travel Channel. It really did fascinate me in a way—the fact that their presence was necessitated somewhere far away, somewhere warmer, sleeker, sexier than where they came from. I was the simple kid from suburban New York, guitar in hand, clueless as to what he was doing, only thinking about his hotel reservation and the passport in his back pocket. Everything seemed a little bigger; JFK was less of an airport hub and more of a (dare I say?) social scene.
Doing the cruise ship job, airports are inevitable. They’re one of your last beacons of dry land and your first light at the end of the contract as you go home. I suppose in a way the downtime between flights and connections can be a bit of a cleansing experience. You’re finally back in the “real” world, walking shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, families, college students, restless loaners, people with their own stories and reasons for getting from place to place. For me, it helps clear my head a bit, shows that I’m separated from the ship, from looking at people as either co-workers, passengers, or the fortunate few who don’t need to worry about all-aboard times.
Today in the Charlotte/Douglass International airport I ran into a sweetheart of a seeing eye dog in training, a lounge pianist playing Amy Winehouse, an impeccably dressed British gentleman, an angry businessman with the strangest bald spot I’ve ever seen, and two full grown adult women, twins, skipping to their gate as if they were pretending to be fairies. I feel like now would be the moment to make some grand statement about opening your eyes to what’s around you, but….I hate clichés, and this is one of the biggest offenders of them all. Entertaining, absolutely true, and a welcome change to seeing grumpy passengers holding up lunch lines and not applauding during shows, but shouldn’t your eyes be opened all the time anyway?
As I walked from terminal to terminal today to meet my connecting flight I ran into another guy with a guitar. We exchanged the universal greeting for crossing musicians (sight head nod) and walked our separate ways. The observing outsider could see it as the working, traveling musicians acknowledging and respecting each other for a brief moment before we carried on into whatever gig lie next.
A nice sentiment, but bullshit nonetheless. He was walking out of the bar that I walked into. Beer and free wireless are great selling points for my people.
Cheers.
Monday, March 2, 2009
23
I always used to wonder what I’d be doing at age 23. I think the notion hit me when I first really started listening to Incubus. There’s a line in “Pardon Me” when he talks about being 23, and I think it was just the massive scope I heard in the song while listening to it on headphones that made me wonder what I’d be doing, what I’d be like, what my objectives in life would be at that time. Overall it seemed like a significant age—just out of college, two years past 21, five years after being 18 and on the brink of graduating high school and making such a loaded choice between college, getting a job or something (decidedly) else.
Five years ago I had no clue. Two years ago it looked like grad school. One year ago it looked like getting ready for grad school and working in a coffee shop somewhere. And now…I’ll spend most of my time at 23 years of age in Europe, working as a musician. Maybe this is overshooting a bit, but I’m certain that if you took me at all three of those ages and gave them a peak into where I was going and what I’d be doing you’d have three very similar answers, likely somewhere along the lines of “holy shit, no way,” or “holy shit, really?” or, possibly “son of a bastard, that’s awesome” (times change, hair styles change, exclamations merely shift).
I think I’m at the point where I’ve come out of my shell enough and the nervous, quiet me isn’t so nervous, isn’t so quiet. I think I’m coming into my own with the guitar. I willingly accept getting tossed around and into trouble as long as I can call it a good time and learn from it. I love digging into things I don’t understand and soaking them up until I’m sick of them, needing to step back until a day or two later when I can appreciate my recent crash course all over again. I’m completely comfortable and accepting of writing near nonsense and posting it on the internet for anyone to read, namely since it means I got you to read it. Ha. Take that.
Maybe it’s because I’m to the point where I’m not too nervous about the future. Maybe because I’ve finally dug into reading “On The Road” and I don’t feel like it’s over my head, that I can relate to what Sal Paradise wants to see. I’m not even sure what this “it” is, but “it” is not so bad. “It” is actually sort of nice. “It” is cool what whatever comes next, so long as there’s coffee and scones nearby. That’s the important thing.
Five years ago I had no clue. Two years ago it looked like grad school. One year ago it looked like getting ready for grad school and working in a coffee shop somewhere. And now…I’ll spend most of my time at 23 years of age in Europe, working as a musician. Maybe this is overshooting a bit, but I’m certain that if you took me at all three of those ages and gave them a peak into where I was going and what I’d be doing you’d have three very similar answers, likely somewhere along the lines of “holy shit, no way,” or “holy shit, really?” or, possibly “son of a bastard, that’s awesome” (times change, hair styles change, exclamations merely shift).
I think I’m at the point where I’ve come out of my shell enough and the nervous, quiet me isn’t so nervous, isn’t so quiet. I think I’m coming into my own with the guitar. I willingly accept getting tossed around and into trouble as long as I can call it a good time and learn from it. I love digging into things I don’t understand and soaking them up until I’m sick of them, needing to step back until a day or two later when I can appreciate my recent crash course all over again. I’m completely comfortable and accepting of writing near nonsense and posting it on the internet for anyone to read, namely since it means I got you to read it. Ha. Take that.
Maybe it’s because I’m to the point where I’m not too nervous about the future. Maybe because I’ve finally dug into reading “On The Road” and I don’t feel like it’s over my head, that I can relate to what Sal Paradise wants to see. I’m not even sure what this “it” is, but “it” is not so bad. “It” is actually sort of nice. “It” is cool what whatever comes next, so long as there’s coffee and scones nearby. That’s the important thing.
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